


voilà le portrait sans retouche

by pasdexcuses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Pining, Portraits, Post-Hogwarts, painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, he sits behind his easel, drawing lines he has no business drawing and forgetting he’s doing this for money. The funny thing is, Draco can’t remember the last time he painted for the sheer pleasure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	voilà le portrait sans retouche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterstorrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstorrm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Picture of Draco Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076350) by [winterstorrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstorrm/pseuds/winterstorrm). 



> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is a remix of winterstorrm’s fabulous fic, "A Picture of Draco Malfoy", so the wonderful idea of one of them painting the portrait of the other to bring them close belongs entirely to her!
> 
>  **Author's Notes** : Dear winterstorrm, is has been a pleasure and a challenge to remix one of your works! Thank you for giving me this opportunity, I’ve had a lot of fun writing something I never thought I’d write :) I hope you like this remix, for I found your original work truly inspiring. 
> 
> To by lovely betas, digthewriter and this_bloody_cat, thank you so much!! You were both incredibly helpful and gave me breaths of fresh air just when I needed them :D

They sit in the living room the first time Potter comes around. Potter doesn’t touch his tea, and Draco is too busy trying to get this over with to pretend to be offended. His plans to get Potter out of Malfoy Manor as soon as possible are, of course, failing abysmally.

“It is customary for the client to have opinions on what he or she wants for their portrait,” Draco states after gauging absolutely no thoughts from Potter on the matter of his own portrait.

Potter stares blankly at him. “I…”

“For example, you might want to choose between a standing or a sitting pose.”

“What would you… I mean, what is the usual?” Potter asks awkwardly.

At this, Draco tries very hard not to curse the day he accepted a commission from the Ministry. Inhale. Exhale. He replies, “There is no usual, preferences vary. You might also want to consider a background. A colour palette.”

“A what?”

At this, Draco sighs. He has to try very hard not to hex Potter on the spot out of sheer frustration. First meetings with clients have never been this atrocious. Trust Potter to exceed expectations.

 

If their first meeting had been a fiasco, Potter’s first session is an absolute calamity.

Potter is, to put it quite simply, a complete disaster at sitting for paintings. This comes as no surprise, considering how little Potter seemed to know about this particular art last week. However, Draco had deeply underestimated the depths of Potter’s inabilities. Draco has been behind his easel for hours now, and still hasn’t gotten any further with his sketches because Potter keeps moving so much. He might as well draw Potter from memory, at this point.

It’s been fifteen minutes since Potter last changed pose, and Draco is counting the seconds before Potter moves and ruins yet another sketch. He feels a rather masochistic sense of accomplishment when he hears the slightest movement that proves his theory that Potter cannot hold still for more than twenty minutes.

“You’ve shifted,” Draco states. “Again.”

The original movement was quite a small one. If Draco had not been looking for it, he probably would’ve missed Potter’s right index sliding to the left. However, once the words have left Draco’s mouth, Potter’s back slouches.

Draco’s first impulse is to throttle him for being so impossible. But something about the way Potter holds himself catches his eye. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, a somewhat embarrassed smile on his lips. With his head ducked, Potter looks nothing like he always does in front of Draco. It’s such a shock that Potter’s face could look like this that the image ingrains itself in Draco’s brain like some sort of magic.

It is not often that Draco gets rushes of inspiration. Mostly, commissions are a matter of constant work. But this Potter in front of him makes something in Draco jump. He picks up his carbon pencil to a blank page.

He draws the outline first, as quick as he can, just Potter’s head, neck and hand. Then his face, adding a few lines for details, the crinkles around his eyes, the curve of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Potter says out of the blue. “I’m quite terrible at this.”

“I know,” Draco replies. He looks back at his page. “I’m tired,” he lies. “We should reschedule for some time next week.”

Potter stares like he’s on the verge of saying something, then doesn’t. He nods before standing up and heading out the door.

 

It takes three sessions to get a proper sketch. Potter continues being a complete troll at staying still, which would frustrate Draco to no end. Except. Well, every time Draco reminds Potter to stop moving, Potter smiles apologetically, the skin around his eyes crinkling, the corners of his mouth turning slightly up. It’s distracting. It’s very distracting because Draco should be focusing on the things he needs to get Potter’s portrait done. Draco would very much like for that to be sooner rather than later. And yet here he is, constantly finding himself drawing apologetical curves he doesn’t really need, outlining crinkles he’s not going paint. He fills pages with Potter’s eyes, has drawn a dozen different expressions in them.

Sometimes, he sits behind his easel, drawing lines he has no business drawing and forgetting he’s doing this for money.

The funny thing is, Draco can’t remember the last time he painted for the sheer pleasure of it.

But these thoughts lead to dangerous places in Draco’s head. He tucks them away, straightens his back and goes back to work.

It takes three sessions to get all suitable angles from Potter. Then, because it would be ludicrous to expect Potter to be able to choose something appropriate, Draco takes some time to decide on a final pose. He spends days staring at Potter in black-and-white, comparing sketches and changing his mind every other hour. He keeps stumbling on that page from their first session. It’s as unfinished as it was left that day but Draco still remembers the look on Potter’s face.

 

In the end, the final pose Draco goes for is not something overtly creative. On his page, Potter is sitting with his chest turned slightly sideways and his head facing forwards. He plays around with his pastels for the background and Potter’s robes, reckoning green is a far too obvious choice.

The day before their next session, Draco writes Potter a quick owl.

_Bring blue robes. — D.M._

 

Draco spends that day brewing pigments in his studio. He keeps a large stock at hand but he’s always preferred to brew his special colours right before he’s about to use them.

Taking jars off his shelf, Draco sets each next to a small cauldron. Brewing pigments is generally not as hard as brewing potions. It’s mostly mixing powder with varying amounts of oil while reciting a few incantations to make sure the final charms will stick. There are, however, certain powders that can be more dangerous than most venoms.

Draco stares at the two smallest jars on his shelf. The first, half-full with a powder the deepest of blues. The second one, full with a dense, green cloud of smoke. He dumps the entire contents of the first jar in the cauldron, thinking he’ll have to order more lapis lazuli soon. He takes the second jar, shakes his head before putting it back. He’s almost certain he’ll have to use it but not until he’s exhausted every other option.

 

Potter is uncharacteristically early when he comes in. Draco tilts his head, considering Potter and his earliness, before showing him to the great armchair in the middle of the room. He’s set the space so everything, the light, the chair, the colours, absolutely _everything_ is right.

“I’ve decided on a sitting portrait,” Draco states. When Potter only nods, he adds, “From the chest up.” Then he gives Potter very precise instructions as to how to sit.

Potter does a very good attempt at sitting just as Draco tells him to, but his chest is at an angle too sharp, his arms, in the wrong place. It’s no use telling Potter what to do.

Instead, he says, “I think I should move you where I want you.” He means it as a question but the words feel awkward on his tongue.

There’s something odd showing on Potter’s face that Draco cannot pinpoint when he replies, “Alright.”

At first, Draco is surprised at how pliant Potter is, how malleable his limbs are under Draco’s hand. Once he’s got Potter right where he wants him, he takes a step back again. It’s still wrong.

“Your face,” Draco starts, walking back to Potter. Cupping both sides of Potter’s face, Draco tilts it so it is angled slightly forward. He’s thinking composition as he stares at Potter’s eyes, his own face inches away. There’s a spark in Potter’s eyes that makes them look greener than normal. He thinks of his pages, none of which hold the brightness of Potter’s eyes at this very moment. He stares at them, trying to memorise their precise shade of green, already mixing pigments in his head.

Then Potter blinks, a second’s distraction where his attention zooms in on the proximity of their faces, on his fingers on Potter’s cheeks.

Draco can feel himself blushing as he drops his hands.

“Green,” is all he says, still standing unbearably close to Potter.

“What?”

“That is.” Draco clears his throat, slowly finding his footing as he steps away. “Your eyes, it’s, er, a very difficult colour to get.”

“Oh.”

“Right.” Then, once he’s steadied himself behind the easel, Draco adds, “Try not to move.”

The initial awkwardness fades into nothingness as Draco concentrates on the canvas before him. The rest of session is spent entirely in silence.

 

It is hours before Draco drops his brush to stretch his arms. He hasn’t really been paying attention to much, so he has to blink a couple of times to make sure he isn’t imagining the dark sky outside his window.

“Are you done?” Potter asks after a moment.

Potter’s portrait is nowhere near done. But Draco is finished for the day. He can’t remember the last time he felt his hands so sore and smiles.

“For today,” Draco replies.

Draco is expecting Potter to confirm their next session and bid his adieu. Instead, Potter asks, “Well, I was thinking of going to the pub for some drinks. Do you, uh, wanna come?”

Perhaps it’s the good soreness in his joints or the looseness of his mind after a long afternoon of oil paint what makes Draco accept. He looks up at Potter.

Perhaps it’s none of those things at all.

 

It’s different, seeing Potter outside Draco’s studio. He makes different faces under the dim light of the pub. Faces that Draco automatically catalogues in his head.

They order butterbeers, and Potter asks him obvious questions about his job. Draco asks him equally boring ones about Potter’s job. The bar is quiet at this time on a Tuesday night. If anyone asks Draco what they talked about, Draco will probably shrug his shoulders and reply, ‘nothing’.

“Is it weird?” Potter asks suddenly. “I mean, to paint someone you knew before?”

“No.”

“Really?” Potter tilts his head to the side. “It’s a bit weird to just sit there and watch you work away.”

“You never ‘just sit there’,” Draco informs him, in case Potter has forgotten his rather tragic career as a model. “If you did, we’d be done by now.”

“Right,” Potter says, chuckling. “Sorry.”

Draco takes a swig from his bottle and avoids Potter’s eyes.

 

When Draco gets home that night, he walks the marble stairs to his studio. He picks up a cauldron, some oil and the jar of green clouds. It’s probably not wise to handle poison after drinking but Draco doesn’t want to forget the exact shade of green.

Taking off the lid, the air fills up with green smoke, toxic and bright. Draco coughs the entire time but, in the end, there’s an emerald-green viscosity on the bottom of his cauldron that is the precise shade of Harry Potter’s eyes.

_There you are._

 

The last time Draco saw the sun rise, the Dark Lord was living in his home. He remembers staring out his window, not being able to sleep through the endless stream of screams coming from downstairs. He remembers his hands shaking, his heart wanting to beat out of his chest.

He never wanted to see the sun rising again for months after the war.

That morning, though, Draco stares out at the sky and at its impossible colours. He had just finished the last of the portrait when the light began to rise and decided to stay there to see a new dawn.

The light comes in through the window, illuminating the canvas before Draco. The brightness is hitting Potter’s eyes, making them sparkle even though the picture is perfectly still. It doesn’t even blink at him. It doesn’t move at all.

It’s finally done.

 

It’s never a good idea to keep a portrait around for long. They talk too much. They stare too much.

Potter’s doesn’t do any of these. It stares at nothing with its head ducked. It smiles at no one. It stays absolutely still, a second captured on Draco’s canvas.

No other portrait has ever unsettled Draco this much.

And he still won’t move it. It makes no sense to move it. Or it does, but Draco doesn’t want to. He _likes_ having it there, likes to know he can stare at it whenever he wants. He tells himself it’s because the portrait is absolutely perfect in its stillness. But whenever he stares at it, he can’t help but feel like that’s not it at all.

 

The next time Potter comes in, his portrait is sitting in the studio, carefully veiled. It sits, innocuous amongst all of Draco’s supplies.

Draco spares a glance at it before taking his seat behind the easel.

 

Potter comes in a couple more times that week. Draco needs him to get the colouring on his face right. He’s given up entirely on Potter’s hair, reckoning it’ll look like the spitting image of Potter as long as it appears to be growing all over the place.

They don’t talk while in Draco’s studio. As it is, they barely communicate outside the studio. And that is mostly about what Potter needs to wear the next time Draco sees him.

Draco guesses Potter’s either run out of small-talk topics or has finally realised Draco’s work is far smoother when his mouth isn’t moving every other second. Draco reckons it’s the first one. Somehow, he has trouble seeing Potter doing him any favours.

By the end of the week, Potter’s commissioned portrait is starting to look like something that could hang on a wall.

The Potter on this canvas is still unmoving. Its eyes don’t blink and its mouth remains frozen into a straight line. It doesn’t smile at Draco but then again, Draco can’t remember Potter ever smiling at him.

 

On the evening that marks their eighth week of working together, Draco announces he’s almost done. Almost because he only has to place the enchantments on the portrait for it to be complete. His fingers feel too tired to perform them right now.

“I’ll owl you when it’s done,” Draco tells Potter. “But you don’t have to come back.”

Potter heaves a great sigh, as though he’s the one who’s been slaving away at a portrait for weeks with a very uncooperative client.

“Let’s get celebratory drinks,” Potter suggests. “I’ll pay,” he adds cheerfully.

 

They go to a different pub, though Draco doesn’t really see the point in switching places. Pubs tend to look the same to him. The place is not bad, per se. Nondescript decoration, poor lighting and the smell of stale beer that is barely cut by the hint of cheap cologne. Draco wonders what Potter likes so much about these places.

It’s fine all the way up until a waitress comes by to take their order. She’s pretty, Draco supposes, though that’s not what catches his eye. What catches his eye is the curve of Potter’s lips. It’s not a smile Draco’s ever seen directed specifically at him.

That’s when Draco realises it. He thinks of the still portrait in his studio and realises the lie behind the instant he’s captured forever on his canvas. A moment where Potter doesn’t look like Potter, and Draco doesn’t feel like Draco. So long as none of them speak, so long as none of them move. They can be whomever because there’s nothing between them. No history behind them.

They’re as impossible as a still-painting in their world.

 

When he gets home that night, Draco walks up to his studio, ready to tear apart Potter’s still painting. Because he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want this. Whatever this is. And yet, once he’s got the portrait in his hands, he can’t help himself. He stares at it, transfixed as he wonders what it would be like to have this Potter to himself.

Realising he cannot will himself to do anything to it, Draco sets the portrait down, and proceeds to stall his work like only Malfoys can. With grace and absolute disregard for others.

 

Stalling can only last for so long. Before anyone in the _Prophet_ gets wind of the situation and goes to print with an inflammatory article that has him as a scam, Draco gets back to work.

What’s left is not much. The portrait itself is done, has been done since the last time he saw Potter. What’s left are the enchantments and making sure they stick. This is easily the most boring part of the job, and if Draco could outsource this bit, he’d gladly do it.

But Draco learned a long time ago that if you want something done, you better do it yourself. People are not to be trusted.

 

Ten weeks after he first took on Potter as a client, there are two finished portraits of him in Draco’s studio. The one that speaks is terribly polite. Almost like it has no personality at all. He wondered, at first, if something had gone wrong with his enchantments. But he was only kidding himself. The truth is, terrible politeness is all Potter will ever have for him.

It makes the still painting an even bigger lie.

 

He should send the portrait straight to the Ministry. He should send it without a note and let that be the end of it.

What he does instead is an exercise in masochism because there’s a perverse part of him that will always want to see Potter one last time. There is absolutely no reason for Potter to come by his studio to pick up a portrait. And yet here Draco is, watching intently the clock, waiting for it to strike three o’clock.

 

Potter arrives three minutes past three. There’s an odd circularity to that that Draco can only find fitting.

It’s awkward when Draco shows Potter his portrait. He bites his lips, feels eleven all over again.

Potter says, “Thank you.”

Draco shrugs his shoulders. “It’s my job.”

“Right.” Potter takes something out of his pocket and offers it to him. A bag full of galleons. Then, he adds, “So, I suppose this is it?”

“Yes, no need to see you anymore,” Draco replies, taking the bag. He doesn’t look at Potter when he says, “I’ll go put this away and bring a parchment with care instructions.”

 

Draco takes his sweet time finding the parchment. He knows exactly where it is, although he reckons it’s not unreasonable to think a piece of parchment would get lost. It’s not one of his proudest moments but chances are he’ll never see Potter after this.

He’s only considering himself, which has always been his gravest mistake. It’s a mistake because when he finally makes it back, parchment in hand, it’s already too late.

 

The still painting of Potter is out in the open. The light hits it just right when Draco sees it, making it look like it’s alive for the shortest second.

Potter is standing staring at it like he can’t quite believe it.

“If you’re gonna snoop, Potter,” Draco says icily. “You better not get caught.”

For a moment, Potter just stands, speechless.

“I don’t…” Potter says, frowning as he looks between Draco and the painting. “I don’t understand. I thought…” Then, his voice gets really quiet, barely above a whisper. “I thought you hated me.”

Draco wishes desperately to stifle the blush creeping to his cheeks. But he can already feel himself burning all the way to his neck.

“I… It’s not what you think,” he lies.

It’s exactly what Potter thinks.

“Do you like me?”

Draco looks away. “I don’t paint the grass on my spare time because I _dis_ like it.”

He hears Potter move and squeezes his eyes closed. Whatever’s gonna happen, he’s not cut for this. Whatever comes, he doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t want to see Potter staring at him with dead eyes. Mocking eyes.

He waits patiently for the words, for the sound of a shutting door. He still doesn’t open his eyes.

He hears Potter muttering something that sounds an awful lot like “sod it” before a hand grabs his. He feels Potter cupping his face, touching his mouth to his. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for the tension in Draco’s shoulders to give away.

He kisses back with all he’s got, his fingers touching at last the skin he’s been painting. Because he has never spent so much time working with a single client, he knows Potter’s features by heart. He could draw him from memory, confident he’d get everything right. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know what Potter looks like.

But he does. He does because he has to _see_ that this isn’t impossible. That this is real and moving and breathing.

“I like the way you smile,” Potter says when Draco opens his eyes. His face is stupidly close to Draco’s, his thumb on the corner of Draco’s lip. Potter’s eyes are the greenest he’s ever seen. “I didn’t know… I mean you never, not at me, anyway. But.” He grins widely at Draco, then says, “It looks really good on you.”

 

The next time Potter comes over, it has nothing to do with either painting. The smile on his face looks a lot like the one on Draco’s secret portrait. Except better. Much better because when he looks up, Potter’s smile is for _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I wanted my summary to just be the first verse of Edith Piaf's _La vie en rose_ in French. But then a dear friend told me that was too pretentious. Instead, I shall leave the verse here because, even though the song never once crossed my mind while writing this, I find it fits perfectly the entire feeling of this story:
> 
>  _Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,_  
>  Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,  
> Voilà le portrait sans retouche  
> De l'homme auquel j'appartiens  
> -Edith Piaf  
> Comments are welcome here or at the H/D Remix Fest at [LiveJournal](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/78259.html).


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